


Down on the Street

by blackmountainbones



Category: The Mighty Boosh, The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Bikes, Cycling, M/M, Mutual Wanking, Punk Rock, Weed, bike messengers, bike slang, boys getting off with each other, handjobs, messlife, punk as fuck, standup comedy, the bike messenger AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway, the boys find each other in every universe, the punkest bar in London, welcome to the niche corner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: Recent art-school graduate Noel takes a job as a London bike messenger. Little does he know, it's more than just a job. Fellow bike messenger Julian invites him to the Thames River Bar and introduces him to the real messlife.





	1. A Pretty Face and a Dirty Look

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely self-indulgent AU based on my experiences as a former bicycle messenger. It's a fun little peek into an obscure urban subculture. I've never been to London but I have ridden a lot of bikes, so I like to think I'm pretty well-qualified to write this. 
> 
> Thanks to [BobSkeleton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton) for all her help with this fic. Love you Bobby!
> 
> All titles so far are from Stooges songs, but as it continues, I'm sure I'll make references to other punk bands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title from "Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell" by the Stooges: [listen here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hd0nL2Fz11I)

Noel hears the tire go flat as soon as he hits the pothole. His bicycle skids underneath him, and he jumps off, just in time to avoid being hit by a passing cab.

Great. It’s only 3pm and Noel has already almost died four times today. This one, Noel considers, was especially close, yet luckily, he and his bike, a pink and orange monstrosity of cobbled parts, seem to have escaped unscathed, flat tire notwithstanding.

Noel is a London bike messenger, and flat tires are a way of life. Unfortunately, he’s also a bike messenger with less than thirty minutes to drop off his double-rush who used his last tube yesterday--which is to be delivered to an address a fifteen-minute ride from the nearest bike shop, which is a twenty-minute walk in the opposite direction.

“Ffffuck,” Noel hisses, and kicks his bike. If he doesn’t get there within 30 minutes, he won’t be paid for a rush… only the standard rate, and dispatch will think twice about giving him another high-paying, high-priority package in the future. He stands and sulks, pissed off at himself for forgetting to restock his flat-fix kit and getting himself into this situation in the first place.

As he fumes, a bike skids to a stop next to him.

The rider dismounts. “Need help?” He looks a few years older than Noel, maybe in his late 20s, clad in the messenger’s uniform of a stained and fraying t-shirt and a ragged pair of cargo pants stained at the calf. His hair is stuck close to his scalp with sweat and grease, though the ends are brown and curl a bit. He is clean-shaven though vaguely lupine-looking, cute, but not Noel’s usual type, less glam-rock and more in that greasy way that suggests a life of grime and infrequent showers. 

Noel understands. He doesn’t think he’s been clean, really clean, since he took up the the life of a London bike messenger. Even on days when it doesn’t rain, when he’s not covered in splattered mud from riding through puddles, a fine grey layer of car exhaust and dust clings to his sweaty skin and clothes. “Yeah,” he admits. “Another fucking flat.” He kicks at the wheel of his bike, frustrated--it’s his fifth one this week.

“It’s cool. I got you,” the guy says, opening up his pack and rummaging a bit. He hands Noel a tube, the black rubber rolled into a small ball. 

“Thanks, man,” Noel says, fumbling with his wallet. “Lemme get you back for that.”

“It’s nothing,” the tall man shrugs, running a hand through his greasy curls and ignoring the cash Noel’s holding out to him. “I have a tonne of tubes.”

Noel pockets the money, feeling awkward. “Thanks…. Um…”

“Julian,” the man offers.

“Yeah, thanks, Julian,” Noel says, starting to feel a bit stupid. “I’m Noel.”

Julian looks him over and nods, shrugging his massive pack back over his shoulder. “See you around, Noel.” He hops back on his bike, a massive yellow fixie big enough to fit his tall frame, and merges into traffic with an impressive acceleration and disregard for traffic laws and his own well-being.

Noel stands struck dumb for a minute, holding the tube, not sure if he’s imagined the whole encounter. Then some bint in a business suit knocks into him and curses, so he comes to his senses long enough to repair his flat tire and deliver his packages and forget to pick up a spare tube yet again. He’s still green, and hasn’t yet learned to carry multiples, but he will, in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on the messlife:
> 
> A "fixie" is a fixed gear bike, a.k.a. a bicycle with a single gear and no brakes. The rear wheel does not move independently of the drivetrain so you cannot coast; you must pedal at all times. When you stop pedaling, the bike stops. Messengers favor fixies over other kinds of bikes because they are very inexpensive to maintain. If you can fix a flat tire, you can fix a fixie. 
> 
> "Skidding" is a manoeuver that allows a fixed gear rider to stop quickly by locking their legs, leaning their weight over the front wheel, and allowing the rear wheel to come off the ground while their legs are locked.
> 
> Messengers spend a lot of time on their bikes, so many will personalize their ride. The bike will tell you a lot about the rider! Julian is a pretentious twat in every 'verse, so he rides a vintage Italian track bike like this one: http://www.classicbikeshop.eu/classic-bikes.html. Noel is a newbie, so he rides a cheap bike cobbled together with used parts and covered in stickers.


	2. I Wanna Be Your Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I Wanna Be Your Dog" is a Stooges song: [Listen here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjDLc-8tW2I)

Of course, Noel starts seeing Julian everywhere after that. 

At the architect’s waiting for a delivery of blueprints. At an art gallery, arguing over the oversize fees for carrying a small yet surprisingly heavy statue. Waiting for a red light, the rare times Julian bothers to stop instead of darting head-on into traffic. Every time, Julian would nod at Noel, yet before they could talk again, one or the other would finish their pickup or dropoff and be off.

Finally, three weeks after their initial encounter, Noel runs into him back at the courier company office when he’s picking up his paycheque. Julian is smoking a hand-roll and playing dominoes with some of the other messengers, most of whom are Caribbean Rastafari. The game is fast-paced and way more complicated than anything Noel’s ever done with dominoes, though to be honest, he’d always just lined them up and knocked them down.

“Hey, Julian! I been looking for ya,” Noel says. 

“Oh, it’s… you again,” Julian says. “From the, uh, street that time.” He clearly knows who Noel is, but has forgotten his name.

The other messengers laugh and tease him in their cacophony of Jamaican, Bermudan, Haitian, and Dominican dialects peppered with the English of their adopted city, all blended into a melodic pidgin language that is absolutely incomprehensible to Noel’s ears.

Julian seems to understand, though when he responds he makes no attempt to speak it along with them. “Calm down guys. I gave him a tube a bit ago.”

“A tube, you say?” a bearded and dark-skinned man with glasses who Vince recognizes as having introduced himself as Sam. He’s got long dreadlocks and a bushy beard and speaks with a bastardized Spanish accent. Noel had been surprised the first time he heard Sam speak; he’d assumed that he was Jamaican, but Sam was actually from the Dominican Republic. “Describe us, this tube you speak of.”

“Yes,” another man whose name might be Shake, laughs. “Do you have to blow it up, this tube?”

Noel knows what he means--he doesn’t fit in. He’s resolutely punk; he still has his vanity and his skinny jeans. At least he doesn’t wear cargo shorts with athletic shirts. That seems to be the trend here, so any kind of attempt at cultivating an aesthetic automatically must look gay to them.

It’s whatever. Noel hears it all the time. At his other job, they at least appreciate the effort he puts into his look. The men laugh, and Julian good-naturedly accept the teasing, getting the men back with a devastating domino move that makes everyone start arguing and ignoring Noel. 

He collects his winnings and excuses himself. He shares the elevator with Noel, and as soon as the door closes, Julian admits, “I forgot your name.” The elevator jerks and groans and Julian runs his hand through his hair, leaving it utterly destroyed. “I feel like a prick.”   


“Yeah, I figured,” Noel sighs. “And it’s Noel.” He won’t hold it against him--after all, he hadn’t even bothered to take the money Noel’d offered him for the tube; he seemed like a good sort, if a bit forgetful.

“Cool,” Julian says, and offers a hand to shake. It’s filthy with road dust and bike grease, but Noel accepts it. Truth is his hands aren’t much better--his polish is chipped and stained black from fixing so many damn flats. “You still getting flats?” Julian asks.

“Yeah, like three times this week!”

“You need a tire,” Julian says. 

“A tire?”

“Yeah, sounds like yours is worn out. Get something flat-protective on there,” he offers. “Expensive, but worth it.”

Noel makes a mental note of that. “OK.” 

The elevator lurches to a stop on the ground floor. The elevator doors shudder open, and the two men walk out into the lobby. Their bikes are locked up next to each other: Julian’s yellow and chrome vintage giant, and Noel’s shitty Frankenstein bike.

“You’re still new, right?” Julian says, unclicking his lock. 

Noel nods. “I started a month ago.” He feels out-of-place. “Needed to get a second job. My other one’s in a gallery. It’s only part-time, though,” Noel explained. “Messenger work is flexible, and I ride a bike anyway.”

Julian shrugs. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“What do you do?” Noel asks, curious.

Julian flashes another one of his wolflike grins. “Me?” His canine glints at the corner of his lip, looking sharp. “I’m a comedian.”

Noel laughs.

“No, really,” Julian says. “They pay me for it and everything.”

“You’ve gone wrong,” Noel says, though inside he’s excited. Julian’s the first person he’s ever met who actually gets paid to make their art. So what if he’s still working as a messenger: it’s flexible, and pays well enough, and he already rides a bike, same reasons as Noel. 

“Come to Thames River Bar next Friday,” Julian says. “I have a gig at nine.”

Noel has no other plans, so he says  _ yes _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During my years as a messenger, I noticed my fellow bike messengers tended to fall into two camps: young wannabe creative types who need a flexible yet well-paying job (like Julian and Noel), or else they recent immigrants looking to get a foothold in their adoptive country. Many of the messengers at my company were Rastafari from South America and the Caribbean. We often played dominoes or dice after-hours in the office, and drinking rum and smoking both cigarettes and weed were encouraged during these games.


	3. There's A Fire Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song "Dirt" by the Stooges: [listen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um6l_I_-Tp0)! My personal favorite Stooges song.
> 
> Beware, sexy times herein! (As if that isn't what you came here for.)

Thames River bar is, ironically, located nowhere near the Thames. Instead, it’s situated in a grotty neighborhood in South London, in the middle of a row of crumbling warehouses. Noel is not even sure that they are licensed to sell alcohol, but they seem to do a booming business regardless. 

“You made it,” Julian says, moving over in the booth for Noel to slide in. He’s sitting next to a butch woman with dreads who’s got her arm around a tiny green-haired girl and Sam from the courier company. It’s a close fit, and his thigh presses up against the entire length of Noel’s, who pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I almost got mugged in the alley when I was locking my bike. This place is mental.” Noel’s got the clothes and the haircut, but he’s never seen anything this punk rock. He feels like a poser, next to Julian. Somehow, he’s more punk that Noel has ever been in his life, even wearing a tiny hat, cargo pants, and athletic jacket, looking for all intents and purposes like a dorky dad.

The dreadlocked woman identifies herself as Martine, and she’s also a messenger (albeit for a different company) and a comic. Though they’ve known each other for three years, it will be her first time performing on the same bill as Julian, and performs a good bit on what it’s like to be gay in a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. She's funny, and Noel finds himself chuckling here and there throughout her set.

Then it’s Julian’s turn. Noel has never laughed so hard in his life as he does during Julian's set--he’s all long limbs and spastic hand movements. His jokes are nothing like Noel’s ever heard before--they lack the standard setup and punchline--but he instinctively understands Julian’s brand of humor.

However, it seems the crowd is mostly befuddled by Julian’s act. A few chuckles sound, here and there, and Noel’s laughter sounds loud and out-of-place, but he can’t stop. Especially when Julian asks the audience to suckle from his many nipples, which makes Noel howl.

“You think the gringo’s funny,” Sam says, looking at him enigmatically. 

“He’s fucking hilarious,” Noel insists between giggles. “Don’t you think so?”

“Huh.” Sam shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “I’ve seen Julian perform a dozen times, and I still have no idea what his act is even about. He talks too damn fast, and my English is too slow.”

Julian returns to the table after his set, plopping down almost on top of Noel, who quickly scoots aside to make space, though Julian's thigh is still pressed against Noel's own. He rests his head on his chin, sighing melodramatically. “Well, that was a tough crowd.”

“The crowd was idiots,” Noel opines. “You’re _hilarious_.”

It’s obvious from his expression that Julian appreciates the compliment, although he seems to have no idea how to accept it graciously. “ _You’re_ the only one who thinks so,” he quips. His eyes are sparkling and pleased, however, and Noel startles when a current of energy passes between them. 

He covers his flinch with a laugh. “Reminds me of some of the stuff I did in my improv club back at uni.”

“The truth comes out,” Julian teases. “You’re just as mad as I am.” He take a sip of his beer; the pint is already empty, which ruins the effect. 

He excuses himself for a refill, and Noel follows Julian over to the bar, where Julian orders them each a pint and gets into a conversation with the bartender. He’s a grizzled older man with big hair, wearing a shirt two sizes too small, the buttons straining over his belly. Noel’s fascinated by him: he’s rough around the edges in a way that suggests that he’s been punk rock since before punk rock had a name. He feels a bit like a poseur with his trendy haircut and tight pants.

Julian hands him a pint. “Gonna go up to the roof for a smoke. You coming?”

Noel doesn’t smoke, but he agrees. The bartender leads them to a door behind the bar, catching the eye of his coworker to let her know he was on a break before unlocking it. 

There’s no skyline to be seen from the roof of the Thames River Bar, just the shitty alley lights that make everything look jaundiced and the dumpsters below. On the roof is a moldy couch, soggy from the recent rain, its cushions misshapen and mildewed. 

Julian collapses on the couch, beer in one hand, rolling a cigarette in the other. He doesn’t look like a man who’s just finished a successful gig--he’s slumped and staring down at his feet, the shadows of the streetlights make his nose looks long and lupine. 

Noel pauses for a moment, looking up at the South London sky. The moon is hanging there, bright but not quite full, and Noel think about werewolves. He shivers, and Julian notices, self-consciously tucking his long limbs close to clear a space for Noel and Rich to sit next to him on the couch. “Uh, sorry,” he apologizes.

“You were good in there,” Noel says, not so easily deterred by Julian’s skittish behavior. 

“Nah. I was shite,” Julian insists. He fumbles with the handroll a bit. “No one had any idea what the hell was going on.”

Noel shrugs. “I did. I thought it was mental. In the best way possible.” He grins, knowing it is a good look on him. Other people, at least, seem endeared to him when he does that. 

Julian squints at him a bit more, are if sizing him up. Noel gets that shivery feeling again, and wonders whether or not the moon is full tonight. “You liked it? Really?”

“Like I said, it reminds me of my own stuff,” Noel admits. “From when I joined the improv club in undergrad.”

“You must be weirder than you fucking look, pretty boy,” Rich growls in a strong American accent.

That breaks the ice finally breaks. All three men laugh wildly in the dim yellow light; Noel laughs until his stomach aches. Then Julian lights a suspiciously-fragrant handroll, which he passes to Rich, who passes it to Noel. “Is this what I think it is?” Noel asks. 

“Depends what you think it is,” Julian deadpans. He and Rich look at each other and laugh. Julian’s already-small eyes go even squintier.

Noel inhales: he’s not wrong, there’s definitely weed in there. He holds the sweet smoke in for a minute, takes another couple of hits before passing it back to Julian.

They sit and smoke and all the boundaries go blurry. Rich excuses himself after the joint burns down, leaving Julian alone on the roof with Noel. When Noel looks back on the moment, he will remember the yellow light and the heat and the shape of Julian beside him, fitting into all the gaps in Noel’s body, and not much else.

“How do you know about this place?” Noel asks. Julian is warm in the cool spring night, and Noel’s all wrapped up in him: his arms are snaked around Julian’s waist, his face resting on the tiny swell of beer-belly at Julian’s middle. Noel’s fucked up (he should know by now not to mix weed and booze, but he never learns), too fucked up to be embarrassed about being clingy when he’s off his tits.

Julian smirks, letting Noel paw at him without complaint. “Well, it’s a messenger bar,” he says, as though he expects Noel to have gotten that much. “Rich was a producer for some punk acts back in New York in the 70s and 80s. Then he got caught up in drugs, got fired, moved to London, and became a messenger. He’s an old-timer: he was still messengering when I was just starting out. A couple years ago he got hit by a car and decided to open up a bar with the insurance settlement.”

Noel whistles, impressed. “Real Sid and Nancy, like.”

“Sid and Nancy are a New York fairytale,” Julian says, sipping his beer. “Thames River Bar is real life.” He has a point, Noel considers: Thames River Bar is here in London, and it’s _punk_. One of Julian’s big hands squeezes Noel’s shoulder, which makes him rub his face against Julian’s belly like an affectionate cat. 

He likes the way Julian smells, cigarettes and sweat and something _human_. He doesn’t smell clean, but it’s not _gross_ , either. Noel remembers reading about it in his biology course: pheromones, they’re called. Julian has good pheromones, Noel thinks.

Julian’s hand skirts up the line of Noel’s shoulders to the base of his neck. It’s a light touch, barely-there, almost flirtatious, and it makes Noel shiver. Then Julian decides to gently tug the hair that curls at the nape of Noel’s neck; he shivers again, and Julian makes a pleased sound.

Noel’s nervous; he wants to bury his face in Julian’s stomach and hide, but he also wants Julian to shag him. He’s never done anything like this before; even though he’s pretty sure he’s not completely straight, Noel’s never gotten off with a guy before. Julian doesn’t seem like the type of guys Noel snogged at uni, who’d mostly been other casually bisexual pretty boys like himself--Julian’s older, more experienced, would probably expect something more than a makeout.

All of a sudden, Julian’s hand is stroking Noel’s pointy chin, urging him to tilt his chin up. As soon as he does, Julian’s mouth is on his, and they’re _kissing._ It’s not the kind of awkward, self-conscious kisses between sexually confused boys that Noel’s used to--Julian’s got a bit of stubble, it prickles, making it obvious that it’s a man Noel’s kissing. Surprisingly, Noel doesn’t mind, not even when Julian wrestles him out of his shirt and pushes him onto his back to lay his body over Noel’s on the grubby, mildewed couch. He braces his weight on his hands, looking down at Noel to confirm that he’s cool with the situation, waiting. 

Noel closes his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing. He can feel Julian’s erection pressing into his stomach and it feels almost surreal, warm, and a little weird. But it’s not _bad_ , just different, different in a way Noel thinks he likes. Eyes still closed, he runs his hands up Julian’s thighs, until his fingers find the waistband of Julian’s cargos; then Noel _pulls_ Julian into him.

Julian gasps and grinds his hips. Noel opens his eyes, and Julian is still staring down at him, so he yanks him closer still. Julian finally catches on to what he’s asking, and thrusts, harder this time. Noel’s own prick starts throbbing against his leg, trapped by the tight fit of his trousers, and he bucks up to meet Julian’s downward thrusts.

Noel’s mouth is open, and he’s breathing hard, feeling wrecked already, just from rubbing against each other through their clothes.

“God, you’re so fucking _hot_ ,” Julian breathes, and Noel wants to tell him that he’s got it wrong--Julian’s the hot one--but every time he opens his mouth to say something, Noel moans instead. 

Julian opens the fly of his cargos and pushes his pants down, eagerly exposing his prick. It’s bigger than Noel expected, veinier than his own, and for a minute Noel stares stupidly at Julian’s penis, not really sure what he’s meant to do.

Luckily, Julian takes matters in hand--he starts wanking himself, slowly, deliberately, making a show of it. Noel watches, transfixed, as Julian’s prick somehow gets even harder as he touches himself.

The tip of Julian’s prick leaves a wet smear on Noel’s stomach. The sensation brings him back to himself, and Noel reaches down to undo his skinny jeans. He’s wearing a ridiculous pair of pants, tiny and rainbow-striped, but Julian doesn’t comment, seeming much more interested in the contents of his pants than Noel’s fashion choices.

Noel hesitates for a moment, then pushes his briefs down his thighs, exposing his cock and balls to Julian, who eyes him hungrily. Noel’s not as big as Julian, but Julian doesn’t seem to mind, and Noel is surprised that he’s not self-conscious at all about their size difference.

“Can I--” Julian asks, and Noel nods before he can articulate what, exactly, he wants. Noel doesn’t know the question, but he already knows his answer is going to be _yes._

Julian positions his hips so that their cocks are pressed together and wraps one big hand around both of their pricks. They’re both already wet; Noel feels like he might come any second. Luckily, Julian’s grip is loose enough that he manages to hold off.

But not for long. Soon Julian’s wanking them faster, harder, thrusting his prick as he strokes. Noel tries to warn him, but the words turn into a moan as they spill from his lips. And suddenly Noel’s coming all over their chests, coming harder than he’s ever come in his life.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Julian moans. He keeps stroking, watching Noel come and come and come. It feels like it will never _stop_ ; there’s so much of it Noel feels a bit embarrassed, but Julian seems content to keep milking him, until Noel’s so sensitive he has to wriggle free from his grip.

Noel knows Julian’s still hard, but he’s so fucked out, he can’t move, not even to put his hand on Julian’s cock and finish wanking him off. Julian doesn’t seem to mind--he’s wanking himself, faster now, the wetness from Noel’s orgasm making an obscene squelching sound as he strokes. It takes only a couple of minutes for Julian to throw his head back, and in the dim alley light, he looks so wolfish that Noel half-expects him to howl his pleasure at the moon.

But Julian comes quietly, biting his lip to keep silent as his cock pulses and his semen spills onto Noel’s stomach. Noel watches, transfixed, as he shudders with the aftershocks. His arms are trembling from bracing himself above Noel, and after he’s come, Julian collapses onto Noel. He’s heavy, but not too heavy--for some reason, Noel finds the weight of him comforting, and he wraps his arms around Julian as they catch their breath.

It takes a few minutes before Julian comes back to himself enough to speak. 

“So messy,” he murmurs, running his filthy hand through the semen on Noel’s chest and stomach. Noel flushes and starts to apologize, but Julian interrupts him. “It’s sexy.” It’s also starting to cool and get stringy and sticky, so Julian reaches into his cargos to extract a filthy bandana. It’s covered in snot and dried blood and chain grease, but Noel doesn’t protest when Julian uses it to wipe them clean.

They tuck themselves back into their clothing, though it’s obvious from their flushed faces and messy hair that they’ve been getting off with each other. For some reason, Noel doesn’t care if someone notices that they’ve just had sex; part of him _wants_ them to know that _he’s_ the reason Julian looks so fucked out. 

Noel’s stomach rumbles, ruining the moment. “God, I’m so _hungry_.” Sex always gives Noel an appetite, but he suspects the munchies have hit him worse than usual--he’s ravenous.

“I live nearby,” Julian offers. “You could come home with me. I have a frozen pizza.”

“Genius,” Noel says, leaning up for a kiss. Julian obliges. They stay wrapped up in each other for a minute more, before the door to the roof slams and they move self-consciously apart.

Luckily, it’s just Rich, taking another weed break. He looks them over and raises his eyebrows, but he’s cool enough not to comment. After all, Noel supposes, he’s an old punk; he’s probably seen it all. “Yo, Julian, you big Northern bastard, you got a light?”

Julian tosses him the lighter. His aim is awful, and it hits Rich in the forehead before bouncing off. The three men laugh together, and Noel feels like he’s part of a private joke, like he _belongs._ It may be his first time at Thames River Bar, but Noel already knows he’ll be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thames River Bar is based on a real bar, owned by a former messenger, in New York City. Off-duty messengers make up the bulk of their clientele. It often hosts messenger parties and events. 
> 
> Rich's character is inspired by one of my first mentors in the cycling industry, who was a music producer in NYC in the late 1970s. He produced demos for many bands that would go on to become famous, and has appeared in many documentaries and books about the era.

**Author's Note:**

> Marked as unfinished, but I think this stands alone pretty well as a complete story so far! I imagine I'll add to this 'verse as the inspiration strikes me. Feel free to ask me questions about this 'verse and/or the messlife in general. Who knows, you might just inspire the muse to write another chapter.


End file.
